I Gave You All
by The Meaning Of Haste
Summary: It's been six months since the fall. Six months since Sherlock left. On this fateful day John makes a trip to the cemetery to give Sherlock a piece of his mind; to say the things he never managed to say.


*Disclaimer: I obviously don't own any of this. The real life ruiners are Moffat, Gattis, Conan Doyle and Mumford and Sons. I just hope to do them justice. *

**I Gave You All**

"_I close my eyes for a while _

_and force for the world a patient smile._

_But I gave you all." _

_-Mumford and Sons, I Gave You All_

"Sherlock!" The cry ripped from him, startling the sparrows that had taken to nesting outside the window of the tiny flat. As John tossed in his sleep, tugging the ratty sheets further and wrapping them unconsciously around his frame, he muttered again. "Sherlock."

It had been six months since his best friend and the world's only Consulting Detective had taken that final leap. Six months and the nightmares had done nothing but increase. Every night, every time he closed his eyes John saw his friend fighting the air and the ground came rushing up all too fast. Every night he would see that dark pool of blood steadily grow larger.

With a final cry John wrenched awake, panting and soaked in a cold sweat. Sitting up gingerly he removed to twisted sheets from his emaciated body. Since his funeral, since Sherlock's death had become real, sleep and eating had eluded John at every turn. The smaller man had taken up drinking, regularly to try to numb the pain, and smoking to have that familiar scent of nicotine lingering with him.

Days passed on endlessly. Every day John would limp over to the kettle in his tiny flat, he couldn't bear to sleep at Baker Street. Not alone. Once he managed to wrestle through his daily necessities he would hobble off to St. Barts hospital, leaning heavily on the cane that had lain unused since that fateful day he had met Sherlock Holmes. Stepping out into the light London drizzle John looked thoughtfully up and down the street. He paused to compose himself for the day, closing his eyes and inhaling the crisp air. To the left was downtown. Molly Hooper. Work as a research assistant. His daily routine. To the right was the cemetery. Sherlock's grave. The lifeless body of his best friend. The only man he had ever truly loved. Taking a deep breath John turned to the right and walked with all the dignity his pain and cane would allow.

Xxxxx

The rain had petered out into a cool mist by the time John reached the cemetery. His leg ached at the use and the cold but somehow the pain made him feel more alive. The stitch in his side was invigorating compared to his normal emptiness. He smiled softly to himself, remembering his trysts throughout London with the Detective. Running at full speed after countless villains and criminals. What Sherlock would think of him now, barely able to walk the two miles to his grave. Ignoring the slight give of the ground under his shoes and the mud that was surely coating the end of his cane, he crossed delicately to the black tombstone that sat alone in the back of the grave yard.

He inhaled sharply as he arrived, taking in the scratches and weathering that now marked what was once smooth stone. He crouched down to his knees, sinking his knees into the damp earth. His fingers automatically reached out to lightly trace the letters. Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello," John whispered, clearing his throat. He glanced around nervously, checking that he was alone. "Sorry I haven't been by in a while. It's just a bit hard you know?" He chuckled coldly at this. "No, I guess you wouldn't know. You're all snug as a bug in that damned coffin. Going days without speaking to anyone just like old times. It's us that you left alone to rot without you." John brushed the legs of his jeans nervously with a sniff.

"You'll never know how completely alive you made me feel. Before I met you, even before the war I was just half a man. They all say to move on, just make new friends. Molly, Greg, Ms. Hudson. 'Just go out' they say. But they don't know do they? Not really."He rocked back on his heels uncomfortably, his leg flaring up at the cramped position.

"I…" he began, unable to make it out. He had never told anyone before, never even said it out loud. "I loved you. You were fucking everything to me but you left. I'll never stop believing in you. Believing in your stories and intellectual prowess. But I will never forgive you for leaving before I could tell you that I loved you." He stood up clumsily, pushing most of his weight down on the battered cane.

"You were infuriating, crass, narcissistic, rude and absolutely brilliant." Touching the cold stone again slightly John finally let a tear slip past his stony mask. "Hurry home," he whispered before turning away slowly. They all told him daily to let him go; that Sherlock was gone forever. Deep down though John wouldn't, no couldn't, believe that his brilliant flat mate had gone so quietly.

Pausing to regain his steady composure he didn't hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching him. He didn't even jump as slender fingers came out to brush his shoulder. What he didn't miss though was the soft, familiar voice whispering, "Oh, John."

Xxxxxxxxx

The end! Sherlock is back! Thank you for reading, reviews would be wonderful to get me through the longer story I'm writing. Cheers!


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